


We're Still Here

by starsonfire



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 3x14, Angst, Cuddling, Drabble, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Red Sky At Morning, suicidal ideation tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:15:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6761107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsonfire/pseuds/starsonfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you-” Clarke swallowed thickly. “Do you ever wish that instead of surviving all the things that we’ve been through, that we just - wouldn’t have, instead?” <br/>Bellamy grew still.</p>
<p>A pretty angsty canon-divergent drabble/one shot that takes place somewhere within the world of 3x14. The weight of the world sometimes grows too heavy on our heroes' shoulders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Still Here

Resign permeated Clarke’s demeanor as she shuffled back into the spartan room she and the others had been tossed into somewhere deep inside the rig. Bellamy alone was still in the room, sitting with his elbows on his knees, hunched over in a metal folding chair - the only piece of furniture inside the metal box of a holding area. His eyes snapped to her immediately as she shut the door behind her. 

“No luck?” he asked in a low voice, sitting up a little straighter. Clarke’s shoulders slumped. 

“None,” she answered tiredly. The inside of the rig was warmer than she was used to, and Clarke had gotten a little hot(headed) while trying to negotiate again with Luna. Her hands fiddled with the buckles and straps of her constricting leather trench coat, finally shrugging it off of her shoulders and onto the floor after a half-hearted struggle. “Where are Octavia and Jasper?” 

“They went down to the galley to eat.”

Clarke didn’t ask Bellamy why he’d stayed here alone instead of going with them, even though he must be starving. He’d always hung back to wait for her for a long time now, and she was afraid that if she questioned it, he’d stop. She didn’t want him to stop.

“So do you think there’s any chance at all of changing Luna’s mind?” He asked, leaning forward and clasping his hands. The semi-darkness of the room cast shadows on the cuts and bruises across his face, making it look even worse than it already was. 

Clarke’s shoulders sagged even further as she slowly walked over to stand in front of him, her arms folding loosely across her chest. 

“Honestly?” She paused, a sigh escaping some deep recess of her lungs. “It doesn’t look like it.” She put a hand to one side of her face, her head ducking slightly. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, Bellamy.”

Bellamy wanted to offer some word of encouragement or other, like he usually tried to do, but as he racked his brain for something to say, he came up short. So instead, he reached out, looping his finger around the two smallest ones of her left hand. 

“Hey,” he said softly, swinging their hands slightly. The second half of the sentence, “it’ll be okay,” stuck thickly in his throat, and she noticed. She opened her eyes to look down at him for a long moment; for a moment too long. Her face fell, and to Bellamy’s surprise, she sank sideways onto his lap, wrapping her arms loosely around his shoulders and tucking her warm face into his even warmer neck. 

“I’m so tired, Bellamy,” she half-whispered, her voice muffled as her moving lips brushed the side of his throat. The initial shock of her choice of seating was wearing off, and his arms wrapped loosely around her waist, his fingers interlocking and coming to rest over her hip. 

“I know,” he assured her, his heart skipping erratically as she drew a shuddering breath against his chest. Her hand drifted from his shoulder, skimming his jawline and coming to rest over his cheek. She lifted her head to look at him, the tip of her button nose inches from his own freckly one. 

“You never told me how you got these,” she asked in a raspy voice, her thumb tracing the half moon-shaped cut under his eye with feather lightness.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said slowly, unable to help his cheek from leaning slightly into the palm of her hand. His gaze held hers with such a burning softness, and when he spoke, the rumbling vibrations she felt against her chest made her shift even closer into him. “You know how it is. If there’s not at least three scars on my face at any given time, I must be having an off day.” 

Her palm brushed his jaw once again as her hand slid back down to rest against the smooth part of his chest right beneath the clavicle. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, her forehead tucked against the crook of his neck.

“It was Octavia, wasn’t it,” she said. There was no question mark in her voice as she reached the end of the sentence. 

Bellamy huffed out a deep breath. “She took Lincoln’s death really hard,” he answered finally, his hands unconsciously tugging against her hip as he spoke. “And I’m the last person who can blame her for that.” 

“It’s always easier to blame someone than it is to just grieve,” Clarke said quietly. “Even if you blame the wrong person.” 

They sat quietly for a moment, just breathing, Clarke reveling in the solidness of his chest, Bellamy in the soft weight of her head on his shoulder. 

“Bellamy?” Clarke murmured against his neck after a while, her lips brushing against his skin.

“Mmm?” He tilted the side of his head to rest against hers.

“Do you-” she swallowed thickly. “Do you ever wish that instead of surviving all the things that we’ve been through, that we just - wouldn’t have, instead?” 

Bellamy grew still. “Clarke,” he said in the voice he usually reserved for her when she was about to do something stupid.

“But don’t you? Just imagine if we’d died in Mt. Weather, or if Dax had managed to kill us that night in the woods, or-” she sniffed, and Bellamy felt a hot tear drop onto his collarbone. She lifted her head off his shoulder to face him, her eyelashes wet into little triangles. “Or if we just hadn’t survived the dropship landing? None of these terrible things would’ve happened.” 

“Clarke,” he said again, his voice low, almost pleading, his head tilting sadly. “You can’t think that way.” 

“Tell me it’s never crossed your mind. Tell me that you’ve never wished it, not even for a single second.” Another tear streaked down her cheek.

Bellamy’s eyes faltered, no longer meeting her gaze. Clarke bit her lip and leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his. The constellations of freckles across his cheeks blurred when she looked at them from this close. Bellamy exhaled, an almost undetectable shake in his breath. He pressed back, the tip of his nose grazing hers. One of his hands drifted from her hip and settled gently over the curve of her waist.

“But it didn’t happen,” he said softly, his deep baritone still rumbling slightly in his chest. 

“We’re still here.” Clarke drew back, her eyes flickering back and forth between his. “We’re still here,” Bellamy said again, tucking a long, wavy strand of hair gently behind her ear. Clarke looked at him a few moments longer, she didn’t nod, she didn’t smile, she didn’t say anything, but Bellamy saw something deep in her eyes settle back down, and she buried her wet face back into the crook of his neck, the curve of her nose against the curve of his throat and her slightly chapped lips against his collarbone. He reached a hand up to the back of her head, slowly stroking the length of her hair, over and over.

“We’re still here.”


End file.
